


The Common Hours

by quiettewandering



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesiac Castiel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Depressed Castiel, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7886815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiettewandering/pseuds/quiettewandering
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has no memory of the past thirty-two years of his life. The only friends he has are Charlie and the birds that he photographs each morning. Castiel would give anything for his memories back, to answer so many of his unanswered questions. Such as, why do his neighbors, Sam and Dean Winchester, act so strangely around him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angels fell in 1904, when Heaven mysteriously locked its doors forever, casting its Heavenly host to Earth. Angels and humans, never the two species to co-exist peacefully, battled two decades for the claim to Earth, effectively almost destroying its resources and land. In 1945, the humans won. Now, in 2010, all angels have either been captured, dead, or gone into hiding. The ones captured are experimented on, have their grace involuntarily extracted, in hopes that the energy from grace will heal the world. The ones in hiding pose as humans, in fear of being taken and drained of their grace. No angel that goes into the labs comes out human and alive.
> 
> Well, all except one.
> 
> *
> 
> “Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”  
> (L.M. Montgomery, The Story Girl)
> 
> *
> 
> Tags: mention of skipping meals as a coping mechanism

Castiel thinks that he’s thirty-two years old, but he’s not sure.

He also thinks that he had a breakfast of packaged oatmeal in the microwave this morning before setting out on his daily walk, but he’s not sure of that either.

Admittedly, his memory often fails him.

Each day, he reminds himself of the things he does know: on February 16th of the previous year, he woke with no knowledge of who he was or how he got the small hotel room bed he was lying in. He was told he had an ‘accident’, rendering him an amnesiac, but he doesn’t even remember that.

A very loud and very chipper young woman introduced herself as Charlie, his ‘memory therapist’. The next year of his life was her teaching him every human thing about the world that he had forgotten.

Even Charlie doesn’t know what his life was before the accident; any life he had before is lost to him.

Castiel’s new life revolves around three basic routines: Charlie’s visits, taking photographs, and drinking weak coffee at the only coffee shop in his neighborhood.

Every morning he walks in the woods by his apartment building. Tucked between the thick and towering trees is a trail that is easily accessible to bikers and enthusiastic walkers. After making sure his pant cuffs are rolled into his socks (tick season, Charlie reminded him yesterday, can’t be too careful) and checking the weather for rain, he departs his apartment building.

The air is sweet from the pine trees and crisp from the autumn air. Sunlight streams through the tops of the trees and makes shattered patterns on the black turf of the trail. There are no people on the trail in front or behind Castiel, and he is secretly thrilled.

He has no preference of what to photograph. It’s usually whatever catches the corner of his eye and looks interesting enough to timelessly capture in a frame. He uncaps the lens of his camera and squints through the glass. He adjusts the aperture for the morning light (around 16 f-stop should be sufficient, he thinks) as he tilts the lens at a red bird—a cardinal, Castiel’s memory supplies—perched atop of a birch tree. He adjusts, focuses, and shoots. The soft noise in the otherwise quiet woods flusters the bird into flapping away.

He crouches, heels pressed into the back of his thighs, and points his lens down the trail. The wind is kicking up leaves in its wake. There are spindly shadowed figures walking toward him in the distance. The sun is just low enough to peek through the tree branches shrouding the path, offsetting a moody autumn sky.

He sits on a bench by the trail after taking a few frames. Elbows resting on his knees, he leans over his small camera screen to squint at his work. Some pictures were a bit dark, weren’t compensating for the light—he could edit that later. Charlie had recently downloaded (illegally, if he knows her) Photoshop onto his computer.

A few people in thick coats and cotton gloves walk past. They barely glance at him to say hello, their laughter fading away down the trail.

Castiel wonders if he was this lonely before the accident.

He’s only lonely now because he’s forgotten anyone he could have ever known. He has a fragmented memory of a mother he thinks he once had, and a time when they were watching a documentary on National Geographic about the brutal effects of oil spills in oceans. He thinks he was about five years old. Maybe younger.

The film spared no imagery of ocean wildlife getting caught in pools of oil, unable to move. Castiel remembers tears spilling down his face as he saw the camera point to a seagull struggling in an oil puddle on a street adjacent to an Australian harbor. Its wings were laden with black sludge and it was unable to move or fly. It called desperately to its flock perched on the building above; they could do nothing but watch.

Castiel remembers asking his mother why the man holding the camera didn’t help the bird. She smiled softly, brushing his tears with the tip of her thumb. “Sometimes, it’s a photographer’s job to observe the pain, not to fix it,” she explained.

Castiel remembers not understanding this; he thought it was cruel.

He wonders why, out of all the memories that flew out of his brain from his accident, that this one caught onto the hinge of the window, stubbornly flapping in the wind, refusing to leave his mind.

Maybe he was a photographer in a previous life, and that’s why he is drawn to this memory, this hobby, and the constant desire to observe people in their lives rather than implement himself into them.

Down the trail to his right, a group of people hover in his view as they walk closer. Castiel repositions his camera strap around his neck and rises, walking the other direction.

He doesn’t know why his memories left him; if it was truly an accident or simply faulty wiring in his brain. For all he knows, Castiel can wake up the next morning and once again have a brain wiped clean.

He thinks it’s easier to not know people, lest he forget them.

*

The sun is much higher in the sky when he returns to his apartment building. He jiggles his key in the old lock of his apartment door, only to get it stuck. He sighs, pushing his forehead against the cool wood. “Damn it.”

The sound of a rustling bag catches his attention to his left. He turns his forehead, still pushed against the door, to smile at his neighbor. His neighbor often claims his first smiles of the day. “Hello.”

His neighbor, precariously balancing grocery bags in one arm while wrestling with his own door lock with the other, pauses to give him a wide-eyed look. “Oh… hey, Cas.”

Castiel still doesn’t know why his neighbor is cautious and skittish around him, but it never bothers him.

The man continues, “Lock jammed again?” At Castiel’s nod, he says, “Mine does that all the time too. Here.” He drops his bags down unceremoniously onto the floor and strides to Castiel’s door, awkwardly taking the key in his own hand. Castiel notices various cuts and bruises sketching his tanned skin. “You just gotta push it to the left while you slam your knee into the door, like…” With a few grunts and jerky motions, the door flies open. His neighbor rubs the back of his neck and smiles shyly. “There you go, Cas.”

Castiel beams at his nickname (somehow it always sets a warmth to his chest), yanking the stubborn key out of the hole and crossing the threshold into his small apartment. “Thank you, Dean.”

*

On TV shows, he’s seen apartments such as his described as “dinky” and “for the impoverished”, but he loves it more than anything else in the world. It’s the only home he’s ever known, after all.  
He deposits his keys onto the small circular table in the middle of his kitchen, crossing a few easy steps to the living room. For a few moments, he sits on his faded orange couch, at a loss of what to do. He can’t remember why he returned home in the first place.

When he leans forward to grab the TV remote from his black IKEA coffee table, something heavy bump against his chest. He blinks down at the bulky camera that’s hung on a strap around his neck.

Oh.

Putting a kettle of water on his pilot stove to boil, he sits in front of his laptop at the table and begins uploading the photos he had taken on his walk.

His mind gets involved in the task enough that he can’t remember pouring a mug of hot water for himself until he brings it to his lips. He stares down at the unassuming water, steam rising from its surface in tendrils, wondering why he never put in a tea bag.

Drinking the hot water anyway, Castiel continues to click through his photos. As usual, they are mostly birds, various fauna, maybe a squirrel that chirped at him in a funny way… there was a candid photo he took of a family of three people, the baby strapped in a pouch on the front of its mother’s chest. They were all smiling and they seem happy.

Their smiles twist at an ugly feeling in his chest.

Castiel sharply stands, his left knee clattering against the table and threatening to knock his mug. He runs his fingers through his hair as he paces the living room.

The feeling will pass. It always does.

*

  
Castiel goes to bed early and forgets dinner. He stays up most of the night, sitting at the edge of his bed, fingers threading his hair (he’s surprised he’s not bald yet), rocking forward and back on his heels to distract himself.

There’s a sharp rap at his door at around six in the morning. He cracks it open, barely stepping back in time to avoid being knocked over by the fiery red-headed woman that bursts through his door.

“If I had to take a wild guess, I would say that you haven’t eaten,” shouts Charlie over her shoulder as she swings open his fridge. She shakes her head and snorts at the shelves full of groceries she had bought him the previous week (especially the eggs; Castiel continues to explain to Charlie that he doesn’t care for eggs but she never listens). As her hands make quick work of transporting food from her grocery bag to the fridge, she continues, “Cas, you gotta eat the damn groceries I get you. If you get any skinnier, I’ll be pissed at you!”

Castiel parks a hip against the kitchen table, arms folded. He can feel his ribs through his thick sweater but he doesn’t see this as a problem.

He’s also still not sure how it’s her job as his ‘memory therapist’ to also feed him as well as help him through his amnesia, but it’s hard to argue with free food.

Her task completed, her eyes finally on Castiel for the first time since walking through the door, something in her expression shifts as she takes him in. “Oh, Castiel,” she frowns. “Did you have a bad night again?”

He knows it makes him look like a petulant child, but he shrugs and looks away.

“Do you need me to get you some more Ambien?”

Castiel runs his fingers through his tussled hair. “It barely helped,” he admits.

Charlie nods. Castiel looks away again when he sees sympathy forming in her eyes. “Yeah, I get it.”

She talks a little more about a job she found for him—bagging groceries at the local supermarket—and asks him if he likes his new camera. She chuckles fondly when he says she didn’t have to buy him something so expensive.

“Oh, and your blog!” she says suddenly, grabbing him by his arms. “I got a few emails from different ad agencies--they want to know if you’ll product placement for some companies in your photos! You have such a huge online following, it would be great advertising for them. Plus you’d get a little extra cash.”

“I don’t…” Castiel gently extracts himself from Charlie’s grasp. “I wouldn’t know how to.”

Her smile resolutely doesn’t falter as she says, “I would help you. Think about it?”

He nods. She continues talking. He thumbs at a splinter in the wood on the table, hardly listening. At some point, she halts her tirade of quick conversation and kisses him on the cheek before bounding out the door. “And eat something!” she yells before slamming it shut.

Castiel glances at the fridge looming before him. Winces at the possibility of cooking and almost burning his apartment down for a second time that month. Although the prospect of Dean bursting into his apartment again at the smell of smoke, fire extinguisher in hand, hair tossed and tan chest bare from sleep, is pleasant, Castiel decides he’d rather avoid the whole situation.

After another few moments of pause, he scoops up his keys and leaves his apartment with a soft click of the door.

*

Dean is in the coffee shop when Castiel walks through the door. A bell attached to the door’s hinge brightly announces his arrival. At the counter, Castiel orders a coffee and muffin. When asked what type he would like of each, he waves his hand impatiently and says, “I don’t care. Anything.”

A coffee and nondescript muffin on a white porcelain plate appear in either of his hands. He wishes he had a free hand to tug at his hair as he decides whether or not he should sit with Dean. His neighbor hasn’t noticed him yet: he is crouched over a small table with a coffee in hand, pouring over a thick book with squinted eyes.

Maybe it would be polite to simply say hi.

As Castiel weaves through people and tables to approach Dean, something in the back of his head reminds him that it would also be nice to see Dean’s green eyes crinkle into a smile again.

“Hello, Dean.”

Startled, Dean hisses as drops of hot coffee spring from his mug and onto his boot cut jeans. “Geez, Cas, I really do need to get you a bell.”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t recall surprising you often,” he says. A sinking feeling pools in his gut as he realizes that he can’t recall much at all.

Dean’s eyes soften. “I just meant that you’re a quiet person.”

“I see.”

“Need someplace to sit?” Dean gestures to the empty chair across from him with his coffee mug.

“Um. Yes.” Castiel is still learning how to decline people’s offers, so to avoid the whole awkward situation he slips into the chair, coffee and muffin clutched to his chest.

Dean raises an eyebrow at Castiel’s muffin. “Gonna eat that?” he asks.

“Oh. Yes.” It’s polite to put the things you are eating and drinking onto the table, Castiel remembers. The plate clinks against the glass tabletop. He begins to rip off bites of his muffin with his hands in small chunks.

“So, how have you been?” Dean asks.

The question surprises Castiel enough for pause. “I’m still alive, so I suppose I’m fine.”

Dean chuckles. Castiel’s heart stutters a beat as it reaches toward Dean’s smile. “That’s good,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t offer any more words, thus effectively killing the conversation. He dislikes when he does this; he should relearn how to small talk. Maybe he was good at it before his memories slipped away.

Both men shift in their seats, staring into their coffee, and silence descends.

“Oh, hey,” Dean interrupts the quiet in a higher pitch than before. “I, um, well I found your blog.”

“Oh.”

“Uh, yeah. Don’t look so freaked out, man. It’s good. I didn’t know you did photography.”

“It’s a side endeavor,” Castiel explains to the dark and steaming surface of his coffee. “It’s only a hobby.” He shifts in his chair against the hard and wooden seat. “Charlie just found me a job at a grocery store.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s grin is back and it’s blinding. “That’s great, Cas.”

He raises his eyes to the ceiling, hoping he’ll find patience there. He doesn’t understand why Dean and Charlie are both tickled pink over a minimum wage position. “It’s nothing more than bagging groceries.”

“Still, it’s a start. At, you know, rehabilitating yourself.”

Castiel knows Dean is friends with Charlie, and that he has undoubtedly been a topic in their conversations. Castiel is practically Charlie’s job, after all, and he learned from the show that Castiel watched on Channel 11 during the nights he couldn’t sleep (How I Met Your Mother) that friends often discuss work with each other. This knowledge does little to help ease his discomfort with the fact that Dean sees him as someone that needs to be “rehabilitated”.

He must have been silent for too long because Dean has returned to reading his book when Castiel refocuses. “Dean,” he begins.

Green eyes peer at him from beneath dark eyelashes. “Yeah, Cas?”

“May I take your picture sometime?”

Dean’s face flashes into an expression indistinguishable to Castiel before it’s replaced with a snarky grin. “As long as you get my good side,” Dean quips, leaning his head to the left in an awkward angle. Castiel tries to laugh, but it comes out as a snort instead. Well, close enough.

There is more silence, comfortable this time. Castiel is glad he didn’t reject Dean’s offer to sit.

They both occasionally lift their heads to smile at each other as Castiel demolishes his muffin and Dean skims pages.

Two women arrive to sit at the table to their left, closer to the window. One deposits her purse loudly onto the tabletop, metal clasps and silver chain clacking against the wood, making Castiel jump at the sudden noise. Dean’s eyes flutter up from his book and he watches Castiel carefully, then glances at the source of his surprise.

“Did you hear about the angel that was caught?” one of them—a brunette—asks the other.

“Just a couple of miles from here. Worked at the drug store, you know, by the McDonald’s?”

“Oh yeah!” the brunette’s friend coos, drawing out the ‘oh’. “Another one hiding out again? Geez. It’s, like, impossible to tell who is an angel and who’s not these days.”

“Yeah, you just never know some people. I can’t wait until our lazy government can nab them all. Every one of them deserves their grace sucked out from them.”

“Our government won’t do anything,” the other scoffs. She leans forward and whispers all too loudly, “We will just have to count on those angel hunters. They’re illegal, but no one’s stopping them, they’re way too effective…”

Across the table, Dean has raised his head and is openly glaring at the two women. Castiel thinks that his face is less handsome when it’s contorted in a scowl.

“Do you mind?” Dean says loudly, breaking into their conversation.

The brunette gives him a few confused blinks, and a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Trying to read here, lady, without you yacking.” Dean references his book with a loud slap of his palm.

Castiel casts his eyes down to the table as the women give them an offended look, murmur something to each other, and walk away to the other corner of the coffee shop.

“Some people,” Dean mutters. He leans forward in his chair and thumbs at a page of his book, his knee bouncing nervously.

Castiel knows that the conversation bothered Dean not because of the noise, but the content, and he can’t understand why. Is Dean an angel apologist? Castiel has heard the phrase, knows that it’s a phrase to denote people who are meant to be arrested for hiding angels from being captured or somehow speaking out for their ‘rights’, and isn’t something you openly call yourself. He’s learned in the past not to ask people what their opinions are on the angels, and just assume everyone hates them and wants them dead. What’s especially frowned up is stating his own opinion on angels (that they should simply be left alone since most of them aren’t actively hurting anyone), so Castiel simply agrees, “They were being rather loud.”

Dean gives him a small and apologetic smile.

The comfortable silence keeps for another few minutes. Castiel is finishing the last crumbs of his muffin when he hears, “Dean, what are you doing here?”  
Castiel turns his shoulder to see who the voice belongs to. Sam, Dean’s younger brother, is standing behind him. His large frame is overbearing, his glare prickling at Castiel’s skin uncomfortably, and he instinctively shrinks away.

“Sammy,” Dean says in a stern tone. “Cool it. I didn’t think you would be back until tomorrow.”

“Yeah, but you know that—” Sam huffs a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. Hey, I have that habit too, Castiel almost says to him. “It’s time to go, Dean.”

Castiel sees a flicker of emotion pass through Dean’s face before it hardens into a frown. “Gimme a minute.”

Dean slams his book shut as Sam impatiently hovers back by the exit. Castiel commences to staring at his folded hands. Dean’s brother doesn’t like Castiel very much, but he doesn’t know why. Every time they meet in the apartment hallway Sam has his eyes downcast and he barely grunts a hello. Sometimes, when the brothers are shouting at each other in one of their frequent and heated arguments on the other side of the paper-thin apartment walls, Castiel hears snatches of his own name thundering from Sam’s lips before ducking into a hushed whisper.

“Nice talkin’ to ya, Cas,” Dean says as he stands.

“Yes.” Castiel remains looking at his hands; it’s exhausting to look at Dean sometimes.

A barely audible sigh escapes him, then Dean is gone. Behind Castiel’s back, he hears Sam hiss: “Why are you reading that book again, Dean? And talking to him? What good do you think this’ll do?”

The rest of the conversation is cut off by the sound of a jingling bell, the door slamming in its wake.

*

That night, Castiel wakes to himself sleepwalking: one hand pressed against his living room wall, the other pressed tightly to his chest. His forehead is resting against the chipped paint, his breath shallow and tight as he feels the wetness on his cheeks.

He had woken up to himself chanting, “I hear you,” again and again, and a hollow ache resting on top of his ribs.

He backs away from the wall, wipes his tears with the back of his sleeve, and hesitantly walks back to bed. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.” 
> 
> (Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore)
> 
> *

Castiel keeps track of the days by way of Dean’s jogs. For the past year or so, Dean has been going for a morning jog on the trail by their apartment building every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. 

Castiel shrugs on a blue jacket and his candy-cane-striped beanie that Charlie bought him for Christmas last year and walks down that same trail every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday mornings, camera in hand. This morning his breath comes out in warm clouds in the frosty morning air. No matter his mood, Dean never fails to make him smile when he hears Dean’s rhythmic footsteps approaching behind him. 

Usually, Dean simply passes Castiel with a smile and a wave, continuing his jog down the trail, doubling back twenty minutes later to come the opposite direction and greeting Castiel a second time on his way home. 

On this Tuesday morning, Dean stops. 

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says with a wave as he slows to a stop next to Castiel’s side.

Castiel lowers his camera; he had been in mid-shoot. Not minding the interruption, Castiel smiles at Dean’s face, framed by the morning light. “Hello, Dean.”

“What were you photographing?”

“That cardinal.” Dean’s eyes follow the trail that Castiel’s finger points to, seeing a patch of red nestled into a naked branch of a birch tree. “It’s the first one I’ve seen since spring started. I like its color.”

“It’s pretty,” Dean agrees. He flicks the top of Castiel’s hat. “Same color as this.”

Castiel lets out an airy laugh. “I suppose it is.”

They stand together for a long moment, blinking into the sunlight at the cardinal. It stares back at them, shuffles its feathers, and takes off.

Castiel can’t help but feel envious of the bird. He wonders if Dean does too.

“I start my grocery store job tomorrow,” Castiel sighs. 

“I leave tomorrow,” Dean replies bitterly.

Castiel abruptly turns his head toward Dean; the motion is quicker than what he’s used to.

“What? Why?”

“Me and Sam are both leaving. For our jobs.”

“Oh. It requires you to travel often?”

Dean nods, scuffing his foot into the concrete below their feet. “Yeah, so... You’ll have to tell me about your job when I get back.” Dean takes a pause, clearing his throat with a laugh. “And try not to piss off too many customers. I think your humor is hilarious, but not everyone does I guess, and you don’t want to offend anyone. You don’t want anyone getting pissed and hurting you or doing something that—“

“Dean,” Castiel breaks in, laying a hand on his shoulder. He feels a pang of worry for his friend. “Is everything alright?”

Dean looks at Castiel’s hand, shaking his head, emotions flickering through his face too quickly for Castiel to decipher. For a horrifying moment, Dean’s face crumples before he turns away from Castiel.

“I’ll see you later, Cas,” he blurts out, running down the trail in the direction of the apartment building.

Castiel stares dumbly at his retreating back, hand still outstretched. 

*

Castiel wakes in an uncomfortable sweat, sheets twisted around his legs. He takes a few moments to breathe into his scratchy pillow before untangling himself and sitting at the edge of the bed. He runs his fingers through his matted hair.

He has no idea why he has consistent nightmares about his neighbor.

He glances at the obnoxiously bright red numbers of his digital clock. Five twenty in the morning. 

Knowing sleep wouldn’t come back to claim him, his feet carry him to the kitchen. He fills a glass of water at the tap.

He dreamt that Dean was in a lake of fire. 

Not burning, but hurting all the same, screaming Castiel’s name. Castiel didn’t know how to reach him. He was unable to do anything but stand at the edge of the lake, shouting for Dean to come to him. When he woke, he felt the most nauseating pull toward Dean’s apartment next to him, a desperate need to knock on the Winchesters’ door and see that Dean is physically all right. 

Even now, hands clutching against his glass of water, his whole body twitches toward the door.  
  
Castiel sits on his lumpy couch and reads Thoreau’s _Walden_ for an hour to occupy his mind. He’s read the book three times in the past year; he doesn’t want to forget it. Something about Thoreau sequestering himself from the world and living off the land by his own terms is comforting to Castiel. It makes him feel a little less odd for wanting to be alone, yet lonely: it helps remind him that there are other people who are odd just like him.

A sharp rap at the door makes him jump. He doesn’t remember walking, but the next thing he knows he’s opening the door and Charlie is standing in front of him. Her smile is wide and she is holding a coffee in either pink-gloved hand. 

“Saddle up, cowboy, we’re going for a walk!” she chimes. 

“Now?” Castiel asks with a tilted head.

“Yes, now, silly! You always take walks in the morning anyways. And you can bring your camera.”

Castiel nods, takes five minutes to change into a warm flannel shirt and jeans with his red and white beanie pulled over his ears. At Charlie’s spoken reminder, he grabs his coat from the closet. She presses one of the hot coffees into his hand and they leave his apartment.

They’re halfway down the concrete stairs outside the apartment building, walking towards the forest, when Charlie grabs his arm. “Uh, maybe let’s go toward the town this time,” she says hesitantly, eyes flickering to their right.

The parking lot for the apartment building is between them and the woods. When Castiel looks that direction, squinting into the low-hanging morning sun, he sees a shiny black car and two figures opening and closing doors as they loaded in luggage. One of them is wearing a frown and a red flannel shirt.

Dean.

Castiel begins walking toward the parking lot as Charlie tugs at his coat sleeve. “Hey, Cas—“ she begins. 

Dean has spotted him, and his features harden as he recognizes Castiel. He also makes a move to walk toward Castiel, but Sam has his large hand on his shoulder and he’s shaking his head at Dean.

Castiel looks over his shoulder at Charlie. “I don’t understand.”

Shrugging Sam’s hand away, Dean heads toward Castiel. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Charlie emphatically shaking her head at Dean. 

“What is going on?” he asks her, louder this time. Charlie gives him a strained smile and an unhelpful shrug. He huffs in frustration and brushes off her hand, walking to meet Dean halfway. 

They are now inches apart. “Dean—“ Castiel begins.

The wind is knocked out of Castiel as he’s folded into a firm hug by Dean’s arms. He feels his heart race as fast as it did when he woke from that dream. He’s very happy that Dean is very much alive in this reality. 

“See ya soon, Cas,” Dean says after a beat, clapping him on the back. His smile is weary and very fake.

“You too,” Castiel says with a frown. Something is wrong, but he can’t tell what it is.

Maybe it has something to do with how Castiel recognizes the dark look in Dean’s eyes and hunched posture as he shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and makes his way back to Sam. It’s a look that Castiel often sees when looking into the mirror: a haunted, lonely reflection.

*

“Do you know what Sam and Dean do for a living?” Castiel asks Charlie on their walk.

She sputters a bit on her sip of coffee. “Um, nope,” she chokes out, wiping her chin. “Maybe they’re travelling salesmen.”

“Oh. Maybe.” Castiel drops to one knee, setting his styrofoam cup on the ground, and poises his camera lens at a chickadee barely concealed in the brown brush. It’s very plain, but the tangled branches and leaves around it make it seem as if it’s part of a wilder beauty. 

“Don’t forget that your shift starts at three today, Cas,” she says above his crouched position. 

“My what?”

“At the grocery store.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly, momentarily forgetting the bird before him. He had forgotten.

“I’ll pick you up and take you there. It’s the first day, so it’ll be easy,” she says cheerfully. “All you gotta do is remember everything they tell you during training!”

Remembering things: because that’s so easy, Castiel thinks wryly. “Have I told you the story of my namesake?” Castiel asks. 

Charlie tilts her head up toward him to offer him a small smile. The steam from her coffee tickles her chin, stubbornly warm despite the chill. “Yes, but you can tell me again,” she says. 

Castiel clears his throat, lowering his camera to his chest. He is grateful for Charlie. She understands when he needs to center himself: to withdraw information he does know from his head, from memories that may have occurred in his past. 

“My parents may have named me after the archangel, Cassiel,” he begins, walking down the path. “I think they were maybe very religious, and maybe I had siblings named after other angels. Cassiel the archangel was mainly an observer: not interfering in humanity’s dilemmas like other angels would, but simply watching events unfold. He is the angel of solitude and tears. Unlike the rest of the angels, he would simply observe humanity.” 

Castiel and Charlie stop at a bench, sitting side-by-side. Charlie gives him an encouraging smile, and it gives him the confidence to continue.

“I read in many books that this makes him the angel that is assumed to know the least about humanity. But, in my opinion, I think that his millennia of observing means he understands humanity the most, because he has been watching us for so long. How could someone not understand after years of watching? I don’t know what my parents were thinking, giving me this name, but it must be important because it’s one of the only things I remember about my past. Do you think that this knowledge, that my name, means something?”

As they do every time Castiel tells the story, Charlie’s eyes are wet when he looks at her. “Yeah,” she says, shifting to a more comfortable spot on the bench. “I think it’s important, buddy. And we’ll help you figure it out one day.” 

Castiel admits, “I wish I could truly remember.” 

“I know,” Charlie says, her voice unusually thick. She has to clear her throat a few times before she continues speaking. Castiel supposes that she is very invested in her job, to get this emotional over one of her patients. She bounces to her feet and adds brightly, “C’mon, we have another hour before you should get ready for work.”

Castiel wonders if Dean is having a pleasant trip. He snaps the photo of the bird before standing and continuing down the trail.

*

Castiel threads his fingers through his hair, frowning at his reflection in his tiny bathroom mirror.

There are dark bags under his eyes and permanent frown lines on his brow. He pulls at the  
collar of his black t-shirt; he feels tired and suffocated.

One hundred and twenty eight minutes ago, Charlie left his apartment after a quick lunch. He has fifty-eight minutes before Charlie comes back to pick him up for his first grocery shift.

He’s been standing at the mirror for twelve. 

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the fact that Dean left town approximately three hundred and one minutes ago.

It shouldn’t bother him. Dean leaves for work every month. Sometimes Castiel barely notices; two weeks pass, with only a fleeting thought of Dean’s absence, and then out of the blue he’s on his runs again, puffing past Castiel on Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday mornings. 

This time is different, Castiel thinks. This time felt more significant.

His hand slips on the sink where he clutches it, skidding and hitting his toothbrush holder as he suddenly thinks: this time it feels like he won’t come back.

Castiel paces quickly from the bathroom and into the living room. He circles his ugly orange couch, fingers running rapidly through his hair, heart palpitating in his chest. This feeling of loss and panic is familiar to him; he’s felt these feelings before, perhaps in his old life. Before the accident. But with no memory to place where it came from, it induces his fear.

This will pass, as it always does. But unlike other misplaced feelings that have flashed through him before, this one is more urgent and present. The ever-nagging feeling of Dean is poking at his mind, insisting on attention. He forces himself to plop onto the couch. His knees jiggle as one hand is stuck in his hair, the other clutching the rough fabric of his jeans.

If Dean never came back, Castiel would never eat those dry and mediocre muffins next to him at the coffee shop again.

If Dean never came back, Castiel wouldn’t see him on his morning runs while he took pictures.

If Dean never came back, a reason for Castiel to get out of bed in the morning would be crossed off of his very short list.

Castiel pauses, staring wide-eyed in front of him, vision unfocused. Does Dean really have that much effect on him?

Yes, he decides later, as Charlie is dropping him off at his first grocery store shift with a cheerful wave. He has a profound effect on him.

The training shift at the grocery store is as expected. He feels sweaty and uncoordinated under the green vest they gave him as a uniform. His mind travels to Dean leaving in his shiny black car rather than focusing on the task, and he walks away quickly to the bathroom when the training manager begins to yell at him. 

After splashing his face with water to compose his erratic breathing and wiping his face dry with a scratchy paper towel, he walks back out to his manager and is promptly fired.

He frowns thoughtfully at the manager’s retreating back and decides that he’s not disappointed at all. He looks at the clock hanging on the wall above the counter where people purchase lottery tickets. 

Ninety-four minutes before Charlie is due to pick him up.

Despite the cold, he sits on the curb outside of the grocery store. People think he’s homeless and offer him money as they walk inside. He tries to refuse but some simply shake their head and smile, pressing dollar bills to the palm of his hand. He huffs a laugh as he realizes he’s making more money sitting on the curb than he did during his bullshit shift.

His fingertips make tracks in his hair as he rubs at his chest, an uncomfortable feeling buzzing beneath his sternum.

After twenty-seven minutes, he sees a dusty white van pull up in front of him. The side door slides open, and a woman pokes her head out, staring straight at Castiel. 

“Shit,” she says, eyes wide.

He has little time to process the situation before she’s yelling, “Get in, get in!” and waving her hand toward the inside of the van. 

Castiel stands and takes a step backward, shaking his head. Movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn his head to the left. He sees two tall men in nondescript clothing striding toward him, sunglasses covering their eyes, movements stiff and hurried. 

“Get in right now!” the woman shouts at him. This makes the two men begin running faster, right in Castiel’s direction.

He doesn’t have his memories, but he has instinctive human reaction. Castiel knows that it isn’t smart to stay in one place, nor is it smart to get into a stranger’s van. 

So, he runs. 

“Dammit, he’s running, step on it!” he hears the red-head yell to the driver behind him. He pumps his legs faster, gripping his fists tight, feeling the dollar bills crumple against his palms. 

Castiel turns a corner around the building so fast that he has to catch himself by his palms, still in mid-run. The money scatters at his feet, abandoned. He knows that he can’t outrun two men—who looked much taller than him—plus a vehicle, so he sprints for the back of the grocery store building. Maybe there’s a back door, a semi-truck with nooks to hide in, someone who can help him—

He barely rounds the corner to the back parking lot of the building when he feels something heavy slam into the back of his head. 

The ground comes up to meet his face and his chest, skidding across his skin, making him feel heavy and dazed against the ground. All he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears and a heavy darkness over the lids of his eyes as he lies on his stomach. He has only a moment to process before he is being hauled up by the crooks of his armpits, held against someone’s chest. 

“Thought you could outrun us, pretty boy?” the other suited man spits in his face. 

Castiel jerks his neck back, pushing against his captor, trying desperately to get away from the man in front of him. He doesn’t like the look in the man’s eyes peeked over the rims of his sunglasses.

“Michael said to bring you back in one piece, but he didn’t say how alive that piece had to be,” the other man chuckles behind him. Castiel feels his arm being grabbed and twisted behind his back until he hears a loud pop and feels exploding pain in his left shoulder. His vision darkens again, threatening to swallow him whole.

A fist connects with his cheekbone, and he feels his face splinter. “You deserve this, even if you don’t remember it,” his attacker declares.  
  
There are two more punches to his face and stomach before Castiel hears a vehicle rumble up next to them and feet pounding against the pavement. A loud and distinct click pierces the chaos. 

“On the ground, motherfuckers,” a woman’s voice commands.

Castiel feels the tight hands around him loosen; the sudden lack of support makes him sway to his knees. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees the woman from before. 

“Are you okay?” she asks with a small frown, her red hair veiling part of her face.

“No,” he grits out. He tastes blood in his mouth and he definitely doesn’t like it. 

“Your shoulder is dislocated. I have to put it back in.”

He barely has time to ask what the hell that even means before pain is splitting his vision again as his joint is forced back to its socket with a sickening snap.

“Hey, we got him,” the red-headed woman says into a cellphone as his vision returns. “Calm down, he’s fine. Just a little roughed up. I’m bringing him back to the apartment now.” She grabs Castiel by the underside of his elbow. “Come on, get in the van.”

This time he has no energy to argue. His head lolls against the headrest of the seat as he slips into unconsciousness.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The past beats inside me like a second heart."  
> (John Banville, _The Sea_ )
> 
> *
> 
> tags: brief panic attack occurs (not described in detail)

_“Why didn’t the photographer help that bird?”_

_“It’s a photographer’s job to observe, not to intervene, Castiel. Not unless specifically told to.”_

_“How does a photographer know whether to observe or intervene?”_

_“That’s not for the photographer to decide. It’s his job to be told.”_

*

Castiel slowly wakes. The words from his only memory recede to an echo in the back of his mind; he often remembers them before waking.

Castiel cautiously blinks the sleep from his eyes to take in his surroundings. He’s in his bed, in his apartment, with a sore stomach and an equally bruised eye, if how stiff it is while trying to blink has anything to do with it.

From his kitchen down the hall, he hears dishes rattling.

“Hello?” he calls hoarsely. He licks his lips to give the semblance of hydration. 

A few quick and pattering footsteps later, he sees Charlie peek through the crack of his bedroom door. “Oh, hi, Cas,” she says softly with a smile. “How are you feeling? Need anything?”

“Charlie…” Castiel leans against his elbows as he attempts to straighten in his bed. “What happened?”

“Here.” She hands him a blue icepack and sits on the edge of his bed. “For your shoulder,” she explains when he gives her a bewildered look. 

Castiel adjusts the bitingly cold ice to his shoulder, staring at Charlie expectantly. He hopes that she will simply tell him what in the world is going on, so he doesn’t have to keep asking. It’s troublesome to keep prying for answers that people don’t want to give.

Charlie chews on the inside of her cheek and sighs thoughtfully, words poised on the tip of her tongue. “I need to tell you something, Cas,” she finally says.

“Please tell me, Charlie.”

“You’re…” She taps her fingers against his comforter nervously. They make muffled but audible tap tap-ing noises. “Before you lost your memories, you managed to piss a lot of people off. I don’t know what you did; I’m only here to help you adapt to your new life. But a woman came to me a couple days ago—“ She pauses, eyes unfocused in front of her, letting out a small laugh, “—an admittedly swoon-worthy woman, but okay that’s not the point. She came to me and told me that your life is in danger, and that you need to relocate. I think she’s someone from your past.”

Castiel nods absently, thinking of red hair flapping against the wind and narrowed brown eyes as she pointed a gun at his attackers. “I think I know who you mean.” 

“Yeah, she’s the one that saved you, called me, got you back here. Her name’s Anna.”

Castiel clutches the ice harder into the swollen ball of his shoulder joint, ignoring the pain, as the name fell flat and unfamiliar onto his mind. “Anna,” he repeats blandly. 

“Yeah.” Tap-tap-tap. “I’m sorry, Cas, but I think we’re going to have to move you to a different city. I don’t know who these people are, but they seem to want you dead. And Anna said we shouldn’t take any chances with them.”

“That seems wise,” Castiel agrees. He stares at her tapping fingers as she explains to him her plans of relocation: what towns they could look into, how she’ll live with him so at least he’s not alone, where she’ll try to find him a more interesting job. It’s all muffled to him, like he’s submerged beneath water. He doesn’t look at her until she pats his good shoulder, smiles, and leaves him to ‘get more rest’. 

Castiel continues to stare at north wall of his bedroom; the wall that he shares with the Winchesters’ apartment. What usually he feels as a palpitating and warm energy from Dean’s side is barren and empty and lost.

It had never felt so cold the other times Dean was absent from his apartment.

He can't be sure, but maybe it’s from the knowledge that Castiel won’t be on his own side of the wall when his neighbor returns.

*

Castiel wakes to the sound of thumping, hours later. 

Thumping, and something painful hitting against his hand.

His eyes flutter open, and he is faced with the glass of his bedroom window that is dripping with condensation. His hand is repetitively hitting the hard metal latch of the window, undoubtedly causing bruising. Aware of his actions, he stops, staring blankly at the dark outlines of trees and the chilly dark blue of the clouds suspended in the night sky. 

He lowers his hand and stares at the red and purple bruising. He looks up, only to realize that he had also sleepwalked to the other side of the room, far from his bed.

He feels something taking hold of his chest, urging him to leave his room, run to it, embrace it…

“I don’t understand,” he whispers at his palm, imploring it for answers. 

*

Throughout the next week, as Charlie plans for relocating them, Castiel takes a bus into town every morning.

He avoids the woods. 

Every morning for the following week is the same: after Charlie joins him for coffee and a light breakfast, Castiel shrugs on his jacket and pulls on his boots and makes his way to the bus stop.

The bus is quiet with haggard faces and slumped shoulders, all subjugated to going to work at seven o’clock every morning. Castiel chooses the back right corner seat each time, pushing himself into the large window, forehead resting against the glass as he stares at the scenery rushing by. 

He thinks about the one memory he has, his mother, explaining a photographer’s role to observe.

He thinks about which city Charlie might deposit him in next.

He thinks about Dean and his forest-green eyes.

By this point, an uncomfortably heavy feeling sets against his chest as he disembarks the bus, the widely-set stairs causing him to almost trip to the curb. He has nothing to do, specifically, in town. Every morning he walks up and down main street on either sides of the street, taking pictures of various people’s expressions and outfits.

There’s no birds, or trees. But he doesn’t mind, because he’s avoiding the woods.

Castiel sees a coffee shop that is part of the same chain as the one in his neighborhood. He sees through the large window, through the decal lettering on the glass, a few large armchairs that are identical to the ones in his neighborhood shop. The same ones that Dean often sits in while he reads.

Well, sat in.

Castiel avoids the coffee shop as well.

On Thursday he sits on a bench close to a towering apartment complex, an orange sign in the front yard proclaiming “Opens March 1st!” Castiel fiddles with his camera lens that seems to have popped loose and pays half of his attention to the conversation between a young couple on the bench next to him.

“That’s amazing that they renovated those apartments so fast,” the girl muses.

“Want to know the secret?” asks the man with a grin.

“What?” says the girl, eyes wide.

“It’s angel grace. Those labs are finally figuring out how to harness the energy. Now, there’s not such an issue with eating up the last of the world’s resources, ‘cause we have a new resource.”

“But… doesn’t taking an angel’s grace make it die?”

“God, Krissy,” the man says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “You were always such an angel apologist.” 

The girl smacks his arm and hisses at him not to use that kind of terminology in public because someone might hear. Castiel remains staring at his camera as they walk away.

It wasn’t there before, but now he feels that tug at his chest. 

He feels it as he wanders the town aimlessly, day after day. Feels it as he reads newspapers declaring that they caught another archangel, that angel grace is more powerful than fossil fuels (and, bonus, won’t hurt the environment), that a faction of angel apologists have been arrested while protesting at the governor’s mansion. 

The feeling climaxes, day by day, over the course of the week. It’s a feeling of deep-seated knowledge that he should be going toward something. No matter how much or often he walks, he feels it, pulling at him incessantly. 

He ignores it, ignores that he misses Dean, ignores the pain in his healing limbs. 

*

Castiel has a panic attack on the fifth day. 

He hasn’t had one of those since a couple of weeks after the accident.

He calls Charlie from his bedroom, even though he’s practically mute, hands shaking and breath gasping. She understands immediately and stays on the phone with him as she hurries to his apartment. 

When she’s calmed him down, she puts an arm around his shoulders and sits next to him on his orange couch, pressed against his side. 

“When is Dean coming back?” he asks her as he holds a glass of water. The liquid tremors from his still-raw nerves.

“I don’t know, Cas,” she replies sadly.

Castiel hears her talking to someone on the phone in the hallway fifty-five minutes later. He can’t imagine who she’s talking to that has caused her to be that upset; talking fast and in hushed tones, occasionally letting out a frustrated and sharp sigh.

Charlie stays the night on his couch, even though he tells her it’s not necessary. She taps her index finger against Castiel’s nose and puts a glass of warm milk in his hand, telling him it’ll help. 

He doubts this is true, since he drifts in and out of sleep almost the whole night. He wraps his camera around his neck, taking pictures of corners in his room absentmindedly, adjusting the aperture and f-stop to experiment with different lightings. 

At around five in the morning, he wakes to a panicked and horrifying feeling racing through him, making him feel as if his head would explode. He sits up so suddenly that his heavy camera whacks against his sore chest. 

Throwing the covers off of his bruised and battered body (still recovering from the attack earlier that week), that screams for sleep, he awkwardly fumbles across the room and throws himself toward the living room. He sees Charlie buried under a thick blanket, her red hair sprawled against the arm of the couch. Her breathing is regular; everything appears normal.

But something is not normal, Castiel’s mind snaps at him, and his racing blood invigorates his tired muscles to stumble toward the front door, not even pulling on shoes. The sharp and chilly air reminds him of his coat and hat that he also forgot in the apartment.

He doesn’t care. He feels this incessant pull; like someone had attached a heavy hook to his chest and was dragging him behind them, bidding him to follow. 

Castiel trips over bushes, sticks, and prickly gravel but doesn’t slow. He walks in a daze until he notices the sun poking up over the treetops in the East. He’s shivering, feet are stinging, chest is aching where his heavy camera bounces against it; he barely feels any of it. 

The blood rushing in his ears, the palpitating feeling of longing, the need to be at his destination right the hell now is all Castiel can feel. 

When the sun is low in the sky, indicating late morning, Castiel stumbles into a town that he doesn’t recognize and makes his way down the main street to a local diner.

The tugging feeling in Castiel’s chest, still taking control, permits him to stumbles to a nearby booth and sit down onto it, the cushion responding with a sounded whoosh.

“Cas?” Dean asks from across the table, a fork of pie midway to his gaping mouth.

“Hello Dean,” Castiel says breathlessly. He turns to his side to regard the taller and younger Winchester brother sitting next to him. “Hello to you, too, Sam.” 

“What in the hell are you—what—“ Dean’s fork clatters to his plate as he stands and rounds the table, taking stock of Castiel’s cut, bloody feet and lack of clothing. “What happened? Are you okay? Is Charlie—“

“Charlie is still at the apartment,” Castiel explains between gulping gasps. “I walked here.”

“You walked here?” Sam asks in a low and disbelieving voice.

“Yes.”

Dean stands awkwardly at the foot of the table, hands clenched at his sides, lips in a tight line as he regards Castiel up and down, taking inventory of his injuries. “If nothing is wrong, then what in the hell are you doing here?”

Castiel stares at Dean’s expectant face for a long moment, absently clutching at his chest. The painful and heavy ache is gone in his chest. With its absence, all urgency of him getting to his destination faded, his injuries from the previous day began to roar awake with vengeance, and he began shivering violently from the cold. “I have no idea,” he admits, hugging his arms around himself and brushing his hands up and down his prickling arms.

Dean shrugs off his leather jacket and wraps it tightly around Castiel’s shoulders while taking an elbow and pulling him out of the booth. “We have to get him warm,” he says to Sam, who nods and fishes out dollar bills to scatter onto the tabletop.

Castiel is lead by Dean’s guiding hand to their black Impala, parked lazily across the white line, and deposited into the passenger seat. While Dean walks to the driver’s side, Castiel pulls the collar of the leather coat tighter around his body. For warmth, of course; but also because Dean’s sweat, past bottles of whiskey, and the faint smell of smoke tingled pleasantly in Castiel’s nostrils.

By the time Sam climbs into the backseat, Dean has the heat on and blasted in Castiel’s direction. Castiel can feel his feet thawing painfully.

Sam leans forward and props either elbow onto Dean and Castiel’s seats, slotting himself between them. “So, Cas,” he says by his ear, “how did you find out where we are?”

“I didn’t know,” Castiel says through his chattering teeth, “I simply walked.”

“For thirty-plus miles in nothing but your bare feet and a pair of freakin’ pajama pants?” Dean all but shouts next to him.

Castiel stares down at his chest, bruises blooming a colorful shade of red and black and blue, skin very bare against his black camera. “I wasn’t aware,” he says. “I didn’t know where you were, either, I had no idea that you were my destination. Just that…I needed to get here.”  


“You felt like were, maybe, pulled?” Sam asks.

Castiel nods and runs a shaky hand through his hair, tugging at the strands until he felt tingling on his scalp. The action helped him focus. “It didn’t feel natural.”

He feels more than sees the brothers give each other a look before Sam ventures, “Maybe something supernatural?”

“Maybe,” Castiel says dismissively, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. He wants quiet, aspirin, and warm covers to curl into.

“Sam, call Charlie back, tell her we found him,” Dean barks as he shifts the Impala into gear.

Castiel finds comfort in the rumble of the Impala’s engine, Sam’s murmured voice as he talks to a frantic Charlie on the other line, the sound of Dean tapping his fingers impatiently against the leather of the steering wheel. Castiel is nearly asleep when he feels the insistent tug at his chest again.

“Wait!” he shouts, hands bracing against the dashboard as Dean slams on the brakes in response, eyes wide. He hears Dean shout his name as he flies out the door, jacket falling in a crumpled heap to the ground, but he doesn’t slow. He’s hooked again with this feeling; less urgent, but existent, and Castiel needs to know where it is originating from.

He rushes at the limestone-brick building in front of him, taking two steps at a time up to the double French doors. He slams his way inside, the sound scattering through the wide, expansive lobby. A woman at a desk with a dim light looks up and raises an eyebrow at him.  
“Excuse me,” she says, flicking a fingering toward her, beckoning him. He sheepishly walks toward her, whispering a “Sorry” when he was close enough.

“This is a library,” she hisses at him, gesturing to the rows of bookshelves through the next room, the plush chairs, the desks scattered among the room. “So first of all, be quiet. Second of all,” she trails her eyes up and down his chest. “No shirt, no entry.”

“It’s okay,” Dean says breathlessly behind him, and Castiel feels the heavy leather weigh down his shoulders. He threads his arms through the cool sleeves, zipping it for good measure. The librarian simply rolls her eyes and waves her hand, effectively dismissing them.

“What’re we doin’ here, Cas?” Dean whispers by his ear as Castiel continues deeper into the room with endless shelves and books. He still feels the pull.

“I want to find out what this is,” Castiel says back, voice at a normal volume. When Dean presses his fingers to his lips as well as a few people sitting at a nearby desk, he understands the point. “I want answers, not questions,” he adds in a whisper.

“Charlie told me that you got jumped by some guys.” Dean follows him through the shelves. “Is that what this is all about?”

Castiel pauses in front of a handful of classical composer’s bibliographies. “I have no memories,” he states.

“Yeah, I know that, Cas.”

“So whatever I can do to fill in the blanks, I will.”

Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, keep following your spidey senses.”

“I don’t understand that reference.” Castiel turns a corner, seeing a wall of doors that lead to study rooms, the walls see-through and glass. He walks to the third room where he feels an abrupt and leaping tug at his chest. “Here,” he murmurs before walking into the room. 

Castiel turns when Dean doesn’t follow him into the room. He sees Dean standing in the doorway, freckles stark against his suddenly pale pallor, one hand on the doorknob. “Cas, why did you pick this room?” he asks roughly, his whisper having less to do with the library’s rules and more with his inability to find his voice.

Only able to offer a small unhelpful shrug, Castiel turns to the wide table and scattered chairs propped before him. It’s all familiar. The tug at his chest knows it, and urges him to know it too. Something is present; dancing around the desk, around the drab blue cloth of the soundproof walls, pinging itself against the fluorescent lights. Something comforting, loving, warm—something Castiel greatly desires but doesn’t know why or even what it is.

All conscious and rational thought abandoned, Castiel runs to that something and embraces it. 

Dean, the table and chairs, the blue wall hangings, the green-shaded lamps, the scattered books; it all fades. It’s replaced by a smaller desk, two chairs, and a dim fog settles over the room. Castiel is no longer himself; he is an observer without a form, staring at two figures seated at the desk, chairs closer together than necessary. One of them is him; the other is a person whose face is distorted by shadow.

_“So, do you think you’ll do it?” the person asked._ His voice sounds scrambled, as if coming through on a bad connection.

_“No,” other-Castiel responded, settling back into his chair and flicking at one of the pages of the books sprawled in front of them. “Anna means well, but her asking me doesn’t mean much.”_

_“She seemed pretty serious when you were talking about it.”_

_“You caught the wrong end of the conversation,” Castiel sighed. “Anna and I never meant anything to each other--marriage would be more of a… convenience than anything.”_

_“Convenience?” the other person snorted._

_Castiel’s lips curled into a grin. “For tax benefits,” he said._

_The other person hesitated only a moment before tilting his head back and laughing. “You and your friends are something else.”_

_“You’re my friend too.”_

_“Well, I’m special.”_

_Other-Castiel hummed an agreement. “Either way; she understands now that I’m not interested.”_

Castiel feels a sweep of relief, and has no idea where it comes from. _“That’s good, Cas,” the unknown person sighed. “You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.”_

_“I know that.” Other-Castiel smiled beatifically at the person next to him and ducked his head to continue to fumble with the book’s pages. “Besides, I think I met someone.”_

A flash of red-hot jealousy and desire simultaneously pooled in the base of Castiel’s gut. _“Oh, really?” the unknown person asked hesitantly._

_Castiel nodded. Paused. Leaned over the table, eyes staring into the distorted man’s face. “And I think you know who it is,” he said._

_The stranger’s lips curled into a small grin. “I think I know too,” he agreed softly._

Castiel feels a flash of warmth spread through him, prickling at his fingertips and toes. He feels inexplicably happy, like the world’s lit on fire and all he can do is dance through the flames. 

He’s so overwhelmed, he barely notices falling against a chair, once again encaged within his own solid body and not an ethereal form. As he blinks the swarming dark spots away, his vision clears to see a books with perched cardinals on the cover sprawled across the tabletop he was bent over. Sound comes back to his ears in layers: his own breath, shaky and uncertain in his ears, then the whir of the heating vent above him, then Dean’s frantic, “Cas? Cas, you with me, buddy? What’s wrong?”

Castiel turns his head, heavy with sleep and emotion and somehow so much energy, to regard Dean’s worried eyes. “I remembered,” he manages to say, and he feels a smile tug at his lips as Dean’s face falls. “I think I remembered.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think of this chapter. I'm curious if all my ideas came through (and if you have a thousand questions, GOOD, they'll all be answered in time)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I've been wondering," Isabelle commented reflectively over dessert, "if it is foolish to make new memories when you know you are going to lose them.”  
> (Erica Bauermeister, _The School of Essential Ingredients_ )
> 
> *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's take a moment to talk about how it mysteriously took me a whole month and 10 drafts to write this chapter. yikes.

 "What the hell was that?” Sam demands when Castiel and Dean return to the Impala.

  
The driver’s door screams its protest as Dean pulls it shut. He sits with his fists clutching the steering wheel and glares at the dashboard. “We need to get something straight,” he says softly.

Sam fills Castiel’s confused silence with, “Get what straight, Dean? What happened in there?”

Dean turns to Castiel, but doesn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me what you remembered in there.” His tone harbors no opportunity for argument.

Castiel runs a hand through his hair as he tries to reach into his small collection of memories and materialize the correct one. “I remember… being in that study room with somebody. But their face was blurred.”

“After you came out of your weird trance back there, you said ‘I remember’,” Dean says, his fingers bending to do dramatic air quotes. “What do you mean by ‘remember’? You remember,” he huffs out a sigh and waves a hand in the air, “you remember _everything_?”

“No,” Castiel admits, his heart sinking. Regaining one memory, he discovers, has him aching for more. “I only remember what happened in the study room.”

Dean unclenches the steering wheel by a degree. “Okay.”

Sam pokes his head in between the two headrests and fixes Dean with a glare. “Dude, you have to fill me in.”

As Dean opens his mouth to speak, Castiel’s stomach lets out a treacherous gurgle. Castiel supposes that it makes sense; he can’t remember the last time he ate.

“We need to get Charles Bronsan here some food first,” Dean says as he twists the key into the ignition, the Chevy motor coming to life with a low purr, “so for now quit your complaining.”

***

The sun is dim and weary when Dean stops to fill up the Impala at a small gas station. As Castiel listens to Dean distantly clacking and hitting against the gas pump outside the car, he squints up at the harassing fluorescent lights through the passenger window. He sees a moth haphazardly trail toward one and begin to stubbornly hit itself against it.

“I have to use the bathroom,” Sam says too loudly, yanking open the door. His knee catches on the seatbelt as he stumbles out of the car.

Castiel blinks, watching Sam’s receding form walk toward the lighted windows of the gas station.

He completely forgot Sam was in the backseat. Now he feels bad for not attempting to make more small talk (Charlie says that’s a weakness of his).  
Through the backseat window, he sees Dean scowling at the pump as it fills the car with gas.

Even in the harsh lighting, even with the affronted glare on his face, Dean’s features are fascinatingly angled and pleasant. In fact, if he lifted his head, Castiel wouldn’t mind looking into Dean’s evergreen eyes for a few long moments, maybe longer than what is conventionally polite—

Dean’s stare is suddenly fixed at Castiel’s. Quickly turning his head, Castiel sinks further into the leather seat and pretends to be very fascinated with the ‘Welcome’ sign on the gas station door.

“Sammy!” he hears Dean bellow at his brother. “Get back in there and get Cas a sandwich!” A pause. “Do I look like a freakin’ waiter? Ask him yourself!”

Castiel jumps when Sam pulls open the passenger door and bends his head down at his level.

“What kind of sandwich do you like?” he inquires.

“I…” Castiel frowns. He usually eats muffins. “What kind is best?”

Sam chuckles warmly. “I’ll bring you something neutral.” Castiel slowly nods in agreement as the door is closed.

Twenty-two minutes later, they are stopped in the parking lot of a dimly-lit park; Dean armed with a flat 6-pack of PBR, Sam with a bag of reduced-fat Chex Mix, Castiel with a soggy ham and cheese sandwich with wilting lettuce.

“Okay.” Sam has a laptop on his knees and the bright glare of the screen illuminates his face in the otherwise dark car. “What you’re saying, Cas, is that the study room literally made you remember a time in the past when you were previously there?”

Castiel absently rubs his sore midsection. The adrenaline from his long walk earlier that morning has worn off, leaving him with all the disjointed and aching sensations of his healing body. “Yes,” he says. “I knew that I was seeing something that happened before. I saw myself with someone else. But their face was blurred and I couldn’t tell who it was.”

Sam nods, frowning at his screen as he quickly types. Castiel takes a tentative bite of his sandwich and peeks over at Dean, who cracks open a beer and avoids his eyes.

“Okay,” Sam finally declares. “I’ll do a little bit of googling. The wi-fi connection I found here is weak, but it’ll be something. In the meantime, Dean, we should call Anna.”

“Like hell.” Dean squeezes his beer can until it begins to cave in on itself and sets it into the cup holder. “We’re not dragging that crazy angel into this.”

“Anna is an angel?” Castiel asks with a sudden tightness to his throat. He was that close to an angel, and he wasn’t killed? More importantly, she _helped_  him?

“Shit,” Dean sighs, pushing a fist into his forehead. “I forgot; you don’t know jack shit about anything.”

“Dean,” Sam admonishes.

“What? _We_  don’t know jack shit about anything, either. Cas just getting back a memory? Out of nowhere? That ain’t normal.”

“Well, what about that book Missouri gave you?” Sam asks, the Chex Mix bag crinkling as his hand searched for food inside it. “Doesn’t it explain anything?”

“Nothing like this,” Dean says as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

Castiel remembers the large, red book that used to accompany Dean whenever he sat in the coffee shop. He supposes that is the book in question.

Sam shrugs. “We’ll just have to keep researching. And if it happens again…”

Castiel looks up, hopeful. “You think it will happen again?”

“Maybe,” Sam says with a smile.

“Or _not_ ,” Dean growls. “Don’t get his hopes up.”

Sam narrows his eyes at his brother. “Call Anna.”  
“ _No_ , Sammy.”

“If Anna is an angel, why was she using a gun?” Castiel muses aloud. “Don’t angels have powers?”

“Not many have powers left,” Sam explains. “Only really powerful angels, like archangels or their seconds-in-command within a faction. Others are just foot soldiers with crazy-good fighting skills.”

“I see,” Castiel says, even though he really doesn’t. He eyes his sandwich, wondering if his hunger is worth the poor quality of the food.

Dean taps his fingers against the steering wheel with one hand, beer in the other. “All angels still have their grace, though,” he adds.

“Unless they get captured and sent to one of those labs,” Sam says offhandedly from the backseat.

The beer can creaks as Dean squeezes it tighter, and he throws it over his shoulder, hitting Sam.

Rubbing his forehead and glaring toward the front seat, Sam continues, “Angel grace is still really powerful. It can still heal, rebuild—I mean, that’s why people harvest grace as an energy source for the Earth, as a force of energy alone it’s unlike anything here on Earth.”

“That’s amazing,” Castiel says honestly. Maybe angel grace could help him get his memories back. Of course, that would require taking it from an angel, and Castiel decided long ago that he doesn’t agree with those methods.

He knows that he gets lost in his thoughts, because when he tunes back into the conversation the brothers are once again arguing over whether or not to call Anna.

“Fine, Dean, if you won’t call Anna, then we should fill Castiel in on what’s going on.”

“No way. We are not dragging him into this.”

“I don’t think there’s a choice anymore,” Sam argues. “If he’s remembering things—“

“It makes no difference, Sam, we’ll just take him back to the apartment and—“

“I’m sitting right here,” Castiel interrupts both of their overlapping voices. “And I can think for myself.”

Sam gives him an empathetic look, and nods. “We know you can. Things are just…” He side-glances Dean. “…complicated right now.”

During the following silence, the memory Castiel gained hours earlier strikes him, suddenly, and he blurts, “Oh. I was talking about Anna in my memory.”

“Interesting.” Sam’s laptop clicks as he types. “That’s good to know.”

Dean says through gritted teeth, “This was _not_  the plan. It’s not safe for him to go running around looking for memories. Even if he <i>could</i> get them back. We should take him back to Charlie, have him relocate, keep him _safe_.”

“Safe from what?” Castiel asks Dean. He doesn’t turn to look at him.

Sam says, “Dean, keeping him from the truth is not the answer. I know it’s not the ‘plan’, but we should—“

“Then what’s your brilliant plan?” Dean cuts in, whirling in his seat to glare at his brother. “I would love to hear it, genius Stanford law graduate, I’m sure it’s just _great_ —“

“Please shut up,” Castiel says over Dean’s yelling. “I have a headache from all of this. And I have a right to know what’s going on.”

“Yes, Castiel, you do,” Sam agrees with a nod. To Dean, he adds, “I can call Anna. She can explain, or we can. Your choice.”

Castiel sees a vein in Dean’s neck enlarge as he works his jaw, finding a response (or, trying to prevent one from coming out that he might regret). He swings around in his seat, making Castiel instinctively shrink away, and slams his way out of the car.

“I’m sorry about him,” Sam sighs. He shuts his laptop and leans back in his seat, letting out a frustrated huff at the ceiling of the car. “I don’t know why he’s acting like this.”

Castiel nods. “He’s normally more rational?”

“Well…no.”

“Oh.”

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, head tilted as he regards Castiel over his chin. “Castiel,” he begins tentatively, “I know you have a lot of questions… but to be honest, I don’t know what to make of you randomly getting a memory back, either. It seems to have to do with you being in the actual place where the memory was made, maybe? But I’m not sure.”

“I was almost… out-of-body, if that makes sense,” Castiel says. “Watching the memory unfold like a television show.”

“Huh. I don’t really know what to make of that. I know Dean’s done research on this: the backdoor-magic ways to getting someone’s memories back. I can look into the resources he’s found.”

Castiel involuntarily blurts, “Why has _Dean_  been doing research?” Dean has likely known for a long time that Castiel is an amnesiac; Charlie probably told him everything. But to have Dean search for a way to regain Castiel’s memories? Why would Dean bother?

Sam, likely taking in Castiel’s incredulous and confused look as thoughts tumbled around in his head, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. He runs both hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. “Okay. This is what you should know. You were attacked by those men last week, the ones that Anna saved you from, because you knew some important intel before you lost your memories. Important angel intel.”

“Angel intel? Why—“

“As you get your memories back, you’ll figure out what that information was and why you knew it in the first place. But you’re, well, you’re in danger, Castiel. Only Anna, Charlie, Dean, and I know you’re even still alive, and we need to keep it that way. Well, <i>Dean</i> wants to keep it that way. Anna and I have a different opinion.”

Castiel picks at the soggy crust of his sandwich. “And your opinion is that you want me to regain my memories?”

“Yeah. Dean is finally warming up to the idea and has been helping us research for the past few months.”

Castiel says, “I see.” He doesn’t see at all. Maybe he should start saying what he means. “Thank you for telling me what you know, Sam.”

“Sure. Of course.” He unzips his laptop case and holds it open for his large, slender computer.

“Just be patient with Dean, okay? He’s kind of callous and frankly, annoying, sometimes but he has his reasons. His experience with life isn’t exactly optimistic. I guess… just try and keep that in mind as long as you are hanging with us.”

Castiel dips his head in a nod, frowning, wondering what prompted Sam to say all this, and opens his mouth to respond when there is a sharp tap at his window. He jumps three feet out of his skin and whirls around to see Dean’s face framed in the glass. Heart pounding, brows furrowed in a glare, Castiel rolls down his window.

“We have a long drive ahead of us,” Dean barks at them. “Anna says Michael is on our tail; we gotta drive to a rendezvous point.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Cas, there’s some bathrooms over there if you want to use them. But pass me a beer first.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “You’re about to drive.”

“Yeah. I know.”

From the backseat, Sam says, “Ignore the alcoholic, Castiel, and go do what you need to do.”

Dean takes a step back when Castiel opens the passenger door. Dean puts a hand on his stomach and half-bows mockingly as Castiel walks past, toward the small building that he assumes houses the bathrooms.

Castiel narrowly avoids a suspicious puddle strewn across the floor when he exits the bathroom a few minutes later. It takes a few deep breaths of fresh March air to rid the stale smell of the toilets lingering in his nose. It’s cold; Charlie says that it’s unseasonably cold this year, and spring is late. He’s only been through one March in his life, so he’ll have to take her word on it.

There’s a bench nestled beneath an oak tree in front of him. It’s away from the line of sight of the Impala, and far from the bathroom stench. He sits on the cool stone and absently taps at his camera that’s still against his chest. Dean’s leather jacket is warm, but feel strange against his bare skin beneath. He hopes that the Winchesters will find a shirt for him soon.

He sighs and puts his head in his hands when he realizes that he won’t be returning to his apartment anytime soon for his familiar clothing. Once again, as it was a year ago, back to square one: without any belongings to his name. At least he remembers his name.

Castiel can’t wrap his mind around the night’s events. Regaining a memory made him feel empowered, like a piece of the puzzle was fit back into its place: but also reminded him of how many pieces he is truly missing.

He hears a chipper voice in the leaves above him. Lifting his head, he smiles at the small chickadee hopping against a branch of the tree, tilting its head at him and chirping. He lifts the lens of his camera and shoots a couple of frames. The twilight makes for a dark and unclear picture, but he doesn’t care. He wants to remember.

“Cas.”

Castiel turns his lens to see Dean in the frame. His friend looks tired. His shoulders are hunched, his expression weighted by gravity, his whole body tilted in a way that it looks like he would collapse into a sleep at any given moment. The usual energy he exhibits, the one that Castiel gravitates toward; it’s missing. He lowers his camera and gives Dean a small, hesitant smile. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean huffs a breath, and his lips attempt to mirror Castiel’s smile. “C’mon, Cas… we gotta get going.” He turns back toward the car.

Castiel stands and holds out a hand, trying to indicate for him to stop. “Dean. You’ve known me for almost a whole year. Why have you been keeping information from me?”

Dean remains half-turned toward the car, his eyes to the gravel. “It’s complicated, Cas.”

“That’s not an _answer_. Did you know me before my memories were lost? Was me losing my memories even an accident?” He feels his confusion bubbling over, slamming into the conversation like a waterfall, “Who is Michael and why does he want me dead? What information could I possibly have that threatens him?” He strides toward Dean, his camera bouncing against his chest, and enters his personal space, throwing his hands up. “Why aren’t you _telling_  me anything?”

An unspoken question: Why does it matter that I feel so betrayed by you?

Dean stays silent, fiddling with an object in his hand. It makes his arm shake as he rolls it between his fingers. Finally, even though his voice is a bit hoarse, “Cas, I’m your friend. Just like I’ve been since we met each other.”

“Friends don’t keep secrets,” Castiel shoots back. He learned this from the show _Friends_ , which, based on the title, is probably the leading expert on the subject.

“I know that,” Dean says, meeting Castiel’s eyes with a somber expression. “But there’s a reason why I kept those secrets. A big reason is so Michael won’t sniff you out and gank you, without you being able to protect yourself.”

Castiel shrugs, feeling his anger diffusing. “That’s reasonable.”

Dean, seeming to sense Castiel’s walls coming down, puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re pissed at me. I get it, okay? I’m pissed at me, too. But you gotta promise me something. If you trust me anymore, at all.” He lowers his hand, flexing it at his side. “I promise to stop being a dick, and I’ll help you get your memories back, no complaints from me. But you have to promise that you’ll let your memories answer your questions. Not me.”

“I don’t…” Castiel shakes his head, trying to find a motive or a reason behind Dean’s words. He can think of none. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“It’s a lot to take in,” Dean says. “Seeing is believing. I don’t know everything about your life. Only your memories can tell you that. And it’s better if you get the info with your memories to back it up.”

Castiel knows that this isn’t the real reason. But he also knows that Dean has a defiant stubborn streak, and that this is the best offer that Castiel will get from him. “All right, Dean,” he says with an outstretched hand. “I promise.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “What’s that for?”

“Isn’t that what people do when they promise things? Shake on it?”

“I guess.” A small grin pulls at his features. “If you really want to be that formal, we can spit in our hands and shake on it. More binding that way.”

“I think blood bonds are even more binding, if you prefer that route.” Something in his chest tugged at the warm chuckle that his joke elicited from Dean. He smiled at him as they both walked back to the Impala.

Behind him, the oak tree swayed gently in the wind, and cicadas began their night chorus.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."
> 
> (Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
> 
> *

The rendezvous point is a six hour’s drive from the park where Castiel ate his soggy sandwich. It’s a small and decrepit cabin, tucked in a veil of trees, away from the county highway. The Impala swerves and shakes on the dirt road as they pull up to the front porch. Due to the dark and his impromptu nap during the drive, Castiel has no idea what their location is.

“Anacker,” Dean grunts as he shuts the hood of the Impala, “Anacker, Wisconsin.” He swings a duffel bag over his shoulder. “We use this place from time to time. It’s a friend’s.”

“And they won’t mind us using it?” Castiel asks as he follows the Winchester brothers up the rickety steps.

“Probably not, since they’re dead,” Dean shoots back over his shoulder.

As Dean fiddles with the door, Sam elaborates for Castiel, “Rufus was killed by an angel from a powerful faction last year. He was an angel hunter.”  
Castiel has heard of angel hunters before. They act as bounty hunters, hunting down angels in illegal ways that the government can’t. Charlie explained to Castiel that since they’re ridding the Earth of “the ultimate threat to humans”, and supplying angels to the labs for grace extraction, on a whole people turn a blind eye to the whole practice.

“Cozy as always,” Dean says once they’re inside, hands on his hips as he surveys the dusty and disarranged living room. It has a musty smell that Castiel can only remember smelling whenever he cracked open a particularly old book at a library.

Dean whirls around to point at Castiel as he reaches for a light on the table. “Don’t touch anything. Rufus would haunt us beyond the grave if we mess with his shit.”

“Only if ‘we’ knock over a whole bookshelf after one too many shots,” Sam scoffs from the kitchen. He begins opening cupboards in the kitchen, rummaging through dishes. “Are we sure that Michael doesn’t know about this place?” he asks. He finds what he’s looking for—an oil lantern—and lights a match.

“Doubt it. Only people that know Rufus even had this place is me, you, and Bobby.” Dean throws his duffel at Castiel. “Find some clothes and put ‘em on so I can have my jacket back.”

The air is chilly against Castiel’s skin as he shrugs off Dean’s leather jacket, pulling on a green Henley. “Who is Michael?”

“An archangel,” Dean says. “Find a pair of socks in there, too. We’re gonna get you some boots.”

Castiel hops on one foot while fighting with a sock on the other. “I thought all the archangels were dead.”

“Not Michael. He’s a tough son of a bitch. And he wants you dead. So, lucky you.”

Castiel frowns at Dean. “I don’t feel lucky.”

“Think the tap water’s safe?” Sam calls from the kitchen.

“As safe as stagnant well water is ever gonna be.” With a scream of the front screen door, he’s gone back out into the cold night air.

Castiel is fascinated by the sheer amount of things in the cabin—a stark contrast against the apartment that housed his meager amount of belongings. Every corner is cluttered with random weapons, tarot cards, books, maps…Castiel’s eyes can’t process every object fast enough.

“Rufus is—was—a bit of a hoarder,” Sam explains later as they clear off the cot in the bedroom together. “Whatever he found on hunts he just ended up keeping.”

“It’s a good way to keep memories,” Castiel agrees. Letting go of the sheet he was helping Sam fit onto the bed, he turns to a bookshelf cluttered with books and dying plants. He raises his camera to shoot a couple of frames. At Sam’s questioning look, he explains, “I keep them by taking photos.”

Castiel sleeps that night in the bedroom, cot hard and unforgiving underneath him, a mobile of dreamcatchers swaying above him. He can hear Sam and Dean’s voices murmuring in conversation from the kitchen.

It’s comforting.

He drifts into sleep on Dean’s rumbling lull. Perhaps that’s what initiates his dream.

Dean is sitting cross-legged on the ground, frowning thoughtfully at the piles of paper scattered in no obvious pattern on the ground.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Castiel asks behind him.

He looks up at Castiel. His eyes are brighter than Castiel has ever seen them; his posture is immediately straight and attentive. “Helping you.”

Castiel sits next to him on the ground, legs hugged to his chest. “What is all this?”

“The places where your memories are.”

The words on the papers are blurred; no matter how hard he tries, Castiel can’t read the words.

“I’m trying to find a pattern,” Dean continues, “to map out the locations, see if there’s a way to know where all your memories are.” He tilts his head up to Castiel, brows drawn and mouth twisted in a frown. “Sam is better at this kind of stuff.”

Castiel presses his shoulder into Dean’s. “You’ll figure it out. You’re the smartest man I know.”

A few papers flutter against the floor when Dean’s free hand moves across the ground to land on Castiel’s leg. He leans in and kisses Castiel on the forehead. Castiel squirms against the warmth he feels exploding in his chest and rests his head on Dean’s shoulder, pressing his nose into Dean’s neck. His skin smells warm and smoky.

“Always know how to make a man blush, Cas,” Dean sighs, his voice rumbling beside Castiel’s head.

He has no memory of being in this place before, yet it feels like home.

“I want to remember,” Castiel confesses into the quiet.

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

Dean runs a hand across Castiel’s back. “Because I do.”  
  
The first thing Castiel sees when he opens his eyes is the multi-colored dreamcatcher hanging from the ceiling.

He tries hard to catch the memory of Dean’s fleeting warmth.

“Hey, Cas!” The real Dean pounds at the door. “Get out here and eat some breakfast.”

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Castiel hooks the camera around his neck before shuffling his socked feet across the short distance to the kitchen.

“You know no one’s going to steal that damn thing, right?” Dean scoffs from where he’s standing at the stove.

Castiel sits at the card table in the living room across from Sam, hands clasped protectively around the camera. He shrugs at his hands.

Sam pushes a steaming mug of coffee toward him with a gentle smile.

“So, here’s the plan,” Dean announces as he deposits plates of scrambled eggs in front of them. “We lay low for the rest of the day, then you and me are going on a roadtrip.”

Castiel looks up from his task of suspiciously poking his eggs. “Me?” he asks as Sam inquires, “Are you sure that these eggs are safe?”

“Yes, you, Cas. And you,” he jerks a finger at Sam, “quit your bitchin’.” Dean shovels a forkful of egg into his face and smiles around the food. “See? Great.”  
Castiel turns to Sam. “You aren’t coming?”

“You and Dean can handle it,” Sam says with a hesitant glance at his brother. “This way, I can keep tabs on Michael. Charlie will help.”

The coffee that Castiel attempts to sip is scalding. He sets it back on the table. “Where are we going?”

Dean’s fork pauses briefly before completing its journey to his mouth. He taps his fingers against the table. “Where you lived before you lost your memories.”

“Ithaca, in New York,” pipes in Sam.

Castiel fingers at his camera’s leather straps. “How did…how did you know where I lived?”

Dean pointedly looks at his plate. Castiel remembers his promise: no questions as to how Dean knows these things, not until his memories have returned.

“Never mind,” he sighs with an irritated glare at his eggs.

Sam clears his throat and picks a rolled-up map off the dusty ground. “I was thinking, Cas, that as you remember where things happened, you can mark it. Find some kind of pattern.”

Castiel snaps his head up to look at Sam. “What did you say?” he asks.

Sam pushes away plates to spread the map onto the table. “It was Dean’s idea,” he says.

I’m trying to find a pattern; map out the locations, see if there’s a way to know where all your memories are.

“It’s a good idea.” Castiel meets Dean’s eye and says firmly, “It’s the smartest thing I can think of doing.”

Dean chokes on his sip of coffee, cheeks a sudden tint of soft pink.

“Once you get to Ithaca, you’ll hopefully start putting the pieces together,” Sam continues. “Does even the look of the location do anything?”

Patiently sitting in Castiel’s vision, the scraggly and small state of New York is a dark green stain on the map. There is a blob of blue on its east perimeter, assumedly the ocean. As far as Castiel has seen in pictures, he thinks he’d enjoy the water.

“It doesn’t look familiar,” he tells Sam with a shake of his head.

Dean rises from the table, knees knocking against it. Castiel’s coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug. “Eat your eggs,” he barks from the kitchen.  
Taking a dutiful bite, Castiel eyes the map. “It seems like a long drive from Wisconsin.”

“About sixteen hours,” Sam agrees. “Maybe Rufus’s library will have a book or two that explains your situation,” he muses to the ceiling.

“Already checked here months ago.” Dean smacks the back of his brother’s head as he passes. “Eat your damn eggs.”

*

There’s an overgrown garden in the back of Rufus’s cabin, tucked under the shade of a tall spruce tree. Castiel sits by it for most of the afternoon and takes pictures of the weeds.

Charlie made fun of him for it, once: finding the dandelions and clovers beautiful, favoring them over the more widely-favored flowers (such as a rose).

He crouches to take a picture of a ladybug on a clover and tries not to mourn over the fact that he felt no draw, no tug in his chest at the mention of Ithaca. That its presence in the world is like a stranger to him.

Focusing the lens on a drip of sap on the spruce tree, he sets his mind firmly away from thoughts that Dean seems to resent him for this whole situation.

That he wishes Dean were more kind to him; like he was before Castiel regained that memory.

Like he was in his dream this morning.

Castiel huffs, a thick tendril of cloud escaping his lips into the crisp air. Dean always seemed to like him; he was friendly, if not a little standoffish, but always seemed to enjoy Castiel’s company.

Now, Castiel feels like he’s simply a thorn in Dean’s side.

A sharp pang in his chest twists. He turns. Dean is standing behind him, a scarf in hand. They blink at each other in silence for a few moments.

“It’s…it’s cold out here,” Dean says, as if it explains everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. He holds out the scarf. “Can’t have you catching the flu and dying before you get your memories back.”

Castiel clutches the soft and warm material. “Is it common to die from a flu?”

“Oh. Well. Not really. But knowing our luck.”

Castiel, knowing nothing of their shared luck, nods in understanding. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Anna and Charlie will be here in a few minutes to pick Sammy up. Charlie demanded to see you,” he adds with an affectionate roll of his eyes.

“I’ll come inside,” Castiel says with a soft smile at the mention of his friend. “My hands are too numb now to take photos, at any rate.” He frowns into the screen thoughtfully, hoping he got at least a few good frames.

Dean is swiftly at Castiel’s side, peering over his shoulder. “What did you shoot?”

Resisting the urge to press into Dean’s warmth, Castiel says, “The weeds.”

“The weeds?”

Castiel clicks through a few photos. “They’re beautiful. See?” He pauses on a close-up of a clover still bitten from the morning frost.

Dean is silent.

“And this dandelion,” Castiel continues, fingers pointing to the frame. “See how the afternoon light was caught in its petals?”

When he looks over his shoulder at Dean—those clover green eyes so close to his own—he sees that Dean’s face has become stiff. His eyes are glassy—likely from the chill.

“That is pretty nice, Cas,” he finally says after clearing his throat. His hand presses onto Castiel’s back, lingering, and low on his spine. “You always took great photos.”

It must be the scarf; but now the air isn’t so cold anymore.

“We should get inside,” Dean murmurs. His abrupt departure back to the house leaves a cold and empty space at Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel gives the forlorn garden a last look, then follows Dean into the cabin.

A blur of red hair and oversized yellow sweater rushes at him as soon as he walks through the front door.

“Cas!” Charlie cries, muffled by Castiel’s jacket. “You’re okay!” She lets go of him, face taking a dark demeanor, and smacks him on the arm. “Don’t you ever run away like that again, dumbass! You gave ma heart attack until Dean called me!” She hoists a blue duffel bag high. “I brought your stuff. Like your camera case.” She stares pointedly at the camera draped around Castiel’s neck.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I left.”

Charlie waves a hand. “Forget it. I just got over it. Are you okay?”

Castiel’s eyes travel to Dean and Sam, talking to another red-headed woman in the kitchen, their backs to him. He doesn’t know how to answer her. The question is somehow so heavy against his shoulders, coaxing him to break. He can only shrug and twist his mouth into what he hopes is a smile.

“Oh, Cas,” Charlie says, a hand rubbing his arm. He feels his smile relax into something more genuine.

The other red-haired woman, who looks vaguely familiar and Castiel assumes is Anna, steps forward with an outstretched hand. “I think we’ve met before,” she begins, “but under more dire circumstances.”

Castiel takes her hand. “Thank you for your help when I was being attacked.”

“Well, least I could do. We tried to keep you safe from Michael up to that point.” Her eyes become narrow slits as she leans in toward him. “I head you regained a memory.”

“I did.” Castiel clutches the blue duffel bag against his chest. “Is that why Michael is trying to kill me?”

From the kitchen, Dean slams down a dish. Sam rolls his eyes. Anna lets out a breathy laugh. “I suppose these oafs that call themselves hunters haven’t told you much yet.”

With Sam and Charlie tucked into a corner of the living room, heads bent over the blue light of a laptop screen, Anna and Castiel talk at the card table. Dean sits on the counter to the right, fingers laced between his hanging legs, watching them with a wary eye.

Castiel recounts the memory he gained to Anna; explains the tug in his chest, the indescribable need to walk all those miles to the library (to Dean).

Anna cups a hand over her mouth, head propped up by her elbow. “It’s curious,” she says, voice muffled by her skin. “It seems like the memory is practically tied to the actual location.”

“And the tugging feeling?” Castiel asks.

“Your mind wants to be reunited with these memories,” Anna says. She shakes her head and gently taps the table. “No, actually, your mind has no idea. It’s the memories that want to be reunited with you.”

“As if my memories have a mind of their own?”

“Something like that.”

“And these memories, that want to ‘reunite’ with me… something about them makes Michael want to kill me?”

Pressing her hands on the table, Anna stands. “That’s just opening a whole other door of… complicated shit,” she sighs. The faucet sputters when she turns it on to fill a glass of water. Turning to face Castiel, she rests her back against the counter. “Michael is an archangel. He’s one of the last archangels that actively tries to make war with humans. Any sabotage on Earth to do with angels, he’s probably the one orchestrating it.”

“And what about me does Michael feel threatened about?”

Considering her water glass below her, Anna says, “A memory you once had; he’s afraid of you getting it back.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says, uselessly.

Anna smiles, gently. “You will; as you regain your memories, things will fall into place.”

"Jesus, Anna," Dean sighs, jumping off the counter and boots smacing against the tile floor. "This isn’t going to turn into one of your angel pissing contests,” Dean barks out. “This war has nothing to do with Cas anymore.” 

Castiel’s spine locks in fear as he sees Anna’s eyes glow an icy blue before she abruptly spins, pointing a finger roughly into Dean's face. “Listen, I'm sick of this argument with you,” she growls into Dean’s face. “Being small-time hunters only catching the little fish, I don’t expect you two to understand how dangerous Michael is. And how important it is we stop him, no matter what sacrifices we have to make.”

  
Dean's face twists into something not quite a smile. He holds out his hand up to stop Sam who was walking toward them, alerted by the sudden tension. “You must have forgotten, Anael, that Sam and I have been hunting Michael all our freakin’ lives. I get how dangerous he is. I want to blast him to kingdom come as much as you do. But,” he juts his head in Castiel’s direction, “I won’t be throwing him into the fire just to do it.”

  
“Don’t you think that once Castiel regains his memories, he will be perfectly capable of protecting himself? Or do you want him to be crippled and dependent on you the rest of his life?” She leans in to whisper, probably not meant for Castiel’s ears but he hears it anyway, “Because it’s the only way he would stay with you?”

Castiel sees a dark look creep into Dean’s eye. Sam must notice it too, from the kitchen entryway, because he says quickly, “Look, this isn’t solving anything, okay? We can figure this out after Michael’s far behind us.”

Anna steps away from Dean; his shoulders slump a fraction. She pulls out a phone, glancing down at the lit screen. "We've been here too long."

   
“What I've been trying to say,” Dean huffs as he scoops his duffel bag off the floor. “Let’s get going. Is Michael close?"

“Monitoring it now, Charlie calls from the living room. “No real danger of him yet.”

“Where will you take him?” Anna asks Dean, over the top of Castiel’s head.

“Ithaca,” is his gruff response.

She raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Seemed like the best place to start.” Dean is fiddling with something in his pocket, his other hand absently brushing something invisible off his jacket. “Since places he’s been to before seem to jog his memory.”

“It’s just… about time.”

“Whatever.” He taps Castiel’s shoulder roughly. “C’mon, get your stuff packed.”

Castiel raises the duffel bag Charlie gave him hesitantly. “This is all I own.”

Pressing his fingers to his forehead, Dean grumbles, “Sounds like we’re adding Walmart to our list of pit stops.”

*

The air is dark and cold as Dean and Sam say their goodbyes on the porch. The dim front light is illuminating their breath as Sam puts his head close to Dean’s, saying something to him softly. The light catches the rings on Dean’s hand as he waves it at Sam, dismissing whatever he said. Castiel sees an emotion in Dean’s face flicker—of hurt?—as Sam grabs him into a tight hug.

Charlie pokes Castiel in the side, opening her arms for a hug. Castiel feels warm as her small body envelopes his for the second time that day. Anna presses a card into his hand.

“Call me when things need explanation,” she says, holding his eyes steadily.

Castiel nods.

Once in the Impala, Dean blasts the heat as the engine roars to life. He turns the majority of the vents at Castiel in the passenger seat. Castiel murmurs a thank-you; Dean seems to have noticed that he’s prone to being cold.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks as the trees swallow the cabin behind them.

Dean blinks, a hand rubbing the corner of his left eye. Castiel counts eight seconds before Dean turns to him and gives him a smile that even Castiel knows is false.

“Just peachy, Cas,” he declares as he shifts the Impala onto the county road, gunning the engine down the open highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you guys are still reading this WIP, thank you so much for sticking by it. real life got in the way and has made me slow to update. But, hopefully they'll be faster from now on :) this story is far from forgotten; I think about it every day.


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